Collectable
by The Maudlin Muse
Summary: White Collar meets 'The Collector' and let's face it, who wouldn't want to collect Neal Caffrey? Warning: The Collector was created by the same people that created the 'Saw' movies, there is a lot of angst and insight into the human condition.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Blood is red bruises are blue, I don't own, you don't sue.

Warning: Very gruesome, blood, torture, highly angsty dark fic. Not for the faint of heart, but well worth it for those who love the highly emotional, very angsty hurt/comfort.

Summary: White Collar meets 'The Collector' and let's face it, who wouldn't want to collect Neal Caffrey?

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Collectable

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Chapter one

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Neal likes going under cover. Neal likes that the FBI… that Peter trusts him to go undercover, even if sometimes he really has no other options. No one is as good as Neal at what he does, no one could be as convincing, as knowledgeable… so even if the FBI doesn't so much trust him as have no choice but to send him, Neal is still happy with that round about acknowledgment. He is even happier when they begrudgingly cut his tracker off his ankle. They HAVE to trust him now…Peter has to trust him.

He could run…

But he won't.

Neal finds, to his utter surprise, he doesn't even want to.

Neal, as a rule, doesn't like danger. Undercover ops all come with some element of danger, but to Neal those are mitigated by the ear wig he wears hidden in his ear, the camera inside his glasses, the tracker, and the microphone he wears in his watch. Neal is happy to pretend there is no danger as long as Peter is on the other end of his gadgets, listening to him through the microphone, tracking him through his tracker, seeing what he sees through the camera and talking to him through the ear wig. Peter will keep him safe.

Besides, Neal has something to prove now, to the FBI and especially to Peter. After he almost ran with that new identity Fowler provided him with- nearly getting blown up, watching his girlfriend get blown up, which is still giving Neal nightmares, though not as much as the hurt look Peter gave him when he realized he was choosing Kate over him- he had been given a second chance by both Peter and the FBI, and he needed to prove to both he was worth it, even if it meant taking on an especially dangerous under cover op.

It had taken some time, but Neal had finally gotten in good with a fence going by the name of Roy. No last name. Roy No-last-name was more than just the average fence. He sought out and tracked down rare valuables and then had cons and thieves such as Neal go and get them for him to sell at a profit they would split. Most fences didn't have that much involvement in a heist, and therefore usually weren't on FBI radar, but Roy No-last-name liked to get his hands dirty, sometimes with blood. He had no qualms about killing a mark or one of his associates if he deemed them to be in the way. He had left a trail of bodies a mile wide in his wake. In Neal's book and, thankfully, the FBI's as well, he just had to go down.

This undercover assignment was rather complex in the fact that Neal had to go undercover while going undercover. His undercover alias Nick Halden, well known for his thievery within the circuit and therefore easily capable of gaining Roy No-last-name's trust, had to go under cover. Neal Caffrey would be Nick Halden posing as Arkin Stewart… it's an odd name, he prefers the more common, blend in with the crowd kind of names for his alternate identities; he, for obvious reasons, doesn't want to stand out, and he doesn't know where Roy has gotten it, but he doesn't ask. He uses the alias provided for him despite his worries.

He has been casing their mark's joint for over 2 weeks under the pretence of being a handy man, another thing Roy put into place for him… he doesn't question any of the decisions Roy has made, regardless of how bad they seem. He knows Peter has his back if this should all fall through, and he doesn't want to do anything to piss- or tip- Roy off. It's a good thing he is good with his hands and capable of doing the menial work required of him.

He is pretty sure tonight's the night he is going to be sent in to retrieve the goods even if, again, Neal thinks it's a bad idea. He had worked again all day putting bars on windows, painting molding, fixing doors, and had learned the family may or may not go out that night for dinner, depending on whether or not their 6 year old twins have recovered from their colds or not. The little boys had been snot rags all day and Neal is leaning towards not. He tells Roy this, but Roy still demands they meet at 6pm.

Neal has time enough to take a shower and unwind with a cup of June's Italian roast before he has to get a move on.

He fastens the watch on his left wrist, perches the thick black framed glasses on his nose and pushes the tiny earwig listening device into his ear canal, past the bend where it can't be seen; in fact, Neal isn't entirely sure he will be able to get back out without surgery.

He goes and meets Roy in a sleazy club. A half naked lady hangs from a pole doing something Neal assumes she thinks is dancing. The air is so thick with smoke he doesn't dare breathe it in to deeply. The music is loud and bad and it hurts his ears. All and all, a real classy joint.

Really, upstanding establishments like this shouldn't open until all the kiddies are tucked safely in bed, but Neal wisely keeps his opinion to himself and follows Roy out into the already, dark, cold December evening. They walk out the back to an expensive looking black car and Neal slides into the back seat after Roy. The look on Roy's face is enough to send shivers up his spine, but Neal is entirely too suave to let his misgivings show.

The locks click shut and Neal is trapped. He is terrified, but shows no fear. He is too good at what he does to give away his true emotions. He doesn't indulge in tells, scared eyes or cold sweats.

"You've had two weeks." Roy says menacingly, flicking his lighter's flame on and off dangerously.

"These things take time and patience." Neal says, seemingly effortlessly keeping eye contact, his voice calm and cool even as Roy brings the flame closer and closer to him. Measured breaths; Neal doesn't even let his heart rate quicken.

"Time's up, my patience is gone." Roy announces with a flick of the flame dangerously close to Neal's face.

"Would it matter if I told you I think this is a really bad idea?" Neal asks as the flame dances awfully close to his right eye. When the flame disappears again, he can't help but reach up to see if he still has an eyebrow.

When Roy glares and goes to flick the lighter on again, Neal grins and swallows a bout of nervous laughter.

"Okay, so tonight…" Neal agrees with a nod of his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Blood is red bruises are blue, I don't own, you don't sue.

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Collectable

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Chapter two

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Neal takes a deep breath as he peers up at the large two story house from the sidewalk out front. His hot breath hits the cold December air, making it look as if he is smoking. It's only 7pm, as it took him an hour between meeting Roy No-last-name and making his way to the house, but it is already pitch black out.

Yeah, this wasn't going to end well, Neal's gut is telling him that much.

Taking another deep breath to steel himself for the monumental fail ahead, Neal grips his equipment bag tightly until his knuckles whiten, and heads up the paved walkway to the front door.

Neal's eyes are like video cameras, his brain like a computer, eyes recording everything he sees while his brain quickly analyzes his situation. He notes there are no cars in the driveway and no lights in the windows. Maybe they went out to dinner anyway, two sniffling children in tow.

He kneels down by the doorknob, grabs his leather gloves from his pocket and shimmies each hand into one. After flexing his fingers in their new leather skin, he fishes the lock pick kit from his bag, FBI issue, not as good as his own but even these second rate tools are gold in his hands and he makes quick work of the front door's double locks.

"All right there, Caffrey?"

Neal nearly jumps out of his skin when Peter's voice sounds loudly in his head.

"Jesus Christ, Peter," Neal whispers, bringing his arm up to scratch his head so the watch is closer to his mouth. He isn't being watched but it wouldn't do to get sloppy. "Could have done without the coronary, thank you."

Neal can hear Peter chuckling and it makes him long to claw the earwig out and toss it across the room.

"Remember, we're in a van around the block. We'll meet at the drop off if all goes well here, but if things go bad in there we can have you out in no time," Peter assures as soon as he stops laughing.

"Pro here, remember? I won't need FBI rescue on a routine heist. No one is even home. I'll see you at the drop off," Neal says into the watch, injecting enough attitude, into his words that he is sure Peter can hear him rolls his eyes.

Making his way up the ugly red carpeted stairs, Neal steps softly, not a single board creaking under his weight. The owners of the house, the Harrisons, thought they were clever, didn't think anyone would think to look for their safe in their sons' room behind the poster of some cartoon dinosaur. They weren't counting on one Neal Caffrey.

He had been canvassing the house for over two weeks, if he couldn't figure out where their safe was in that time he belonged finding a new profession... Well he had found a new profession, he worked on the other side of the law now but he was still a con artist, _**artist **_being the operative word here.

The house is dark, almost unnaturally so, but then again, it is the night of the new moon and the stars don't exactly shine bright in this part of New York. With as many windows facing the street as the house has, Neal doesn't want to risk a flashlight until absolutely necessary. Still, even sans light, Neal is graceful and makes his way to the twins' room making nary a sound.

The door gives a little creak when he goes to open it, but a little finesse and some pressure in just the right spot quiets it right away. Closing it quietly behind him, Neal finally takes out his flashlight; the twins' room is rear facing, no one out and about on the street would see his light shining if he should accidently hit the widow- the next house is set so far back it's inhabitants pose no threat.

Neal makes his way over to the poster in question and carefully removes it from the wall, propping it up next to him for easy return once he is finished.

It isn't hard to break into the safe, especially with the gadget the FBI provided. Neal would have been happy with a stethoscope, but the sound wave listening device, unlike the subpar lock pick kit the feds saddled him with, is definitely handy.

Hearing the final click of the combination slide into place, Neal slowly opens the safe door. Peering inside, his eyes light up like a child in a candy store.

"Remember Caffrey, we're watching you." Peter says into his ear, making him sigh.

"Yeah, yeah," Neal grouses, sorting through the birth certificates, social security cards, gold coins and other miscellaneous, highly interesting valuables until he comes across a small, black velvet jewelry box. He pulls it out from where it was hiding between a book housing an old stamp collection and a dusty piece of parchment with faded ink, maybe an ancient family tree.

Holding the small box up so the camera in his glasses could get a good shot of it and shining the flashlight on it with his other hand, Neal carefully opens the box with a gentle flick of his thumb, revealing a brilliant pink diamond set in a white gold ring, surrounded by smaller pink diamonds that make their way all the way around the main gem and the ring itself. There have to be dozens of smaller pink diamonds in the setting, not to mention the main pink diamond that had to be at least two and a half carrots all on its own. It was a piece mined from Australian that had been lent to the America Museum of Natural History for their diamond exhibit.

Daddy Harrison is the curator of the Museum's Department of Earth and Planetary Sciences, which was the department directly responsible for the diamonds exhibit. A water pipe bursting a little over two week before had made it necessary for Joseph Harrison to bring home the jewels to be stored in his personal safe. Security was compromised, the exhibit closed down, all the other jewels returned to the proper owners save the only one that came from out of the country. It was on loan to the museum until the following month and the people responsible for it back in Australia hadn't wanted it back on their hands any earlier than that. Harrison had to keep hold of it until it could be returned in 4 weeks time.

Neal can hear whistling from several of the agents stationed in the van when he revealed the ring. He would whistle too, if he weren't too suave for that sort of reaction.

When the whistling dies down Neal hears the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps that the whistling previously disguised. He becomes very still, his ears perking up a moment, making sure he's really hearing what he thinks he is.

"Okay Neal, you got the ring, now get out of there." Peter's voice says in his ear.

"Shhh," Neal hushes him, listening again. Most definitely footsteps. Shit!

Snapping the lid on the diamond shut, he shoves it into his pocket, flicks his flashlight off and quickly places the poster back on the wall before grabbing his bag.

"Caffrey?" Peter asks, his voice concerned.

Neal tiptoes to the door and peers out. He sees a black silhouette disappear around the corner halfway down the hall, too fast to catch with the camera, and Neal is very aware that, by peering out with the wrong side of his body, the side without the camera, that he has given Peter a very nice close up of the door jam, but no shot of whomever is in the house with him.

"Caffrey," Peter repeats upon getting no answer, "is everything okay?" The only sound Neal can make in response, is that of air coming in and out of his lungs. He holds the watch close to his mouth so Peter can hear he is still alive. It's all he can provide. "Damn it, Neal! Answer me!" he demands.

But Neal can't. The footsteps are getting closer, even the sound of breathing is too loud and Neal has to hold his breath a moment, while he slinks out of the bedroom. He leaves the door open. He can't afford to make any noise at all and he would rather risk leaving the door open and have it raise questions than close it and get caught.

He heads slowly down the steps, not wanting the wood under the ugly carpet to squeak. Something is wrong and he has to get out, it's a feeling in his gut and he acts on it fast. That wasn't Mr. Harrison. Neal can tell by the man's build, even if he didn't see his face. There was another intruder in the house besides Neal and Neal could only guess to his motive here.

He hastens to the closest egress, only when he gets to the front door, it won't open. His stomach tightens and his breath catches as he looks up and sees what the problem is. The door had been fit with four more locks, on the inside, since he first entered less than 10 minutes earlier.

Reaching up, Neal feels them. They are real and sturdy and- he runs his hands over them- unpickable, at least in the time he has, judging by the sound of approaching footsteps behind him.

"Neal… Okay, I get it. I gave you a scare before, are we even yet?" Peter asks, frantic for an answer from the man on the other end of the microphone.

Neal doesn't dare answer; the footsteps are close, close enough to hear him if he even so much as whispers.

He scans the room quickly for another way out and spots the window. He makes his way over using his catlike grace. The blinds are down, they weren't down before, Neal is sure of it, it was why he had not dared turn on his flashlight when he first entered the house.

Why would the intruder lower them?

Neal pulls them open slowly enough to feel an extra pull that shouldn't be there, but not slow enough to keep from triggering the trap he has unwittingly fallen into.

He jumps to the left just as a knife flies at him. It is suspended by a string and makes a J shaped arch as it flies fast, past Neal's face, the point hitting his glasses right in the corner where the camera lens is located, knocking them off his face before the knife's edge slides against his temple.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Blood is red bruises are blue, I don't own, you don't sue.

A/N: The Italics in the middle are when Peter checks out for a bit and we switch to Jones' point of view before Peter gets back.

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Collectable

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Chapter three

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"Caffrey," Peter repeats upon getting no answer, "is everything okay?" Nothing but the sound of his consultant's heavy breathing makes it across the line. "Damn it, Neal! Answer me!" he demands. A slight queasy feeling starts to build in his stomach with every passing moment that Neal doesn't answer.

"Neal… Okay, I get it. I gave you a scare before, are we even yet?" Peter asks, a frantic note to his voice, pleading with Neal to just say something. He listens carefully to the wire feed, hearing nothing but Neal's heavy breathing and his worry begins to mount. It isn't like Neal to suddenly go quiet. It isn't like Neal to be quiet at all.

He gets a tight feeling in his gut, the kind of feeling most good agents get when something is wrong.

The visual is crap without the flashlight and Peter hates that Neal has turned it off. He doesn't like being blind here. The little camera nestled inside the thick black frames he made Neal wear is no good without enough light. Peter can't make out much of the room at all, save silhouettes of large pieces of furniture and even those are blurry, but when something obviously pointy hit the lens right in the middle, well, Peter sees that.

He stares at the dark room, now segmented by a webbed crack and is too shocked to react for a moment, which isn't at all like him. It hasn't escaped his notice that Neal hasn't reached and picked the glasses up again, he is terrified that he may be unable to do so and what that implies.

His blood runs cold, his face turns ashen and he feels panicked. He has felt panic before. Bullets aimed at your person is likely to produce that feeling, but he has never felt blind panic like this before, and it is like all time has stopped and he is frozen in the moment where the knife is flying at HIS consultant's face.

Peter is good in the face of danger. He has to be, he is a special agent for the FBI. He isn't prone to freezing or becoming frantic, not even when scared for his life. Those things lead to bad decisions and are simply not vices he can indulge in.

But now, a wave of panic grips him, like an icy fist around his stomach, and he actually feels completely frozen, incapable of action in any way.

_Jones stares at him, bewildered. He has never seen his boss unable to react and they have been in some sticky situations together. _

_It seems Neal is his Achilles heel, and as much as he likes the guy, ex con or not, having Peter's very own weak spot on their team is going to lead to real danger sooner or later. It was something he was going to have to talk with Peter about. Maybe if he was aware of it he could change it. Jones doesn't want to see anyone re assigned, in Neal's case may be sent back to prison, or worse, dead. _

"_Peter, listen, you hear that?" Jones puts one hand on Peter's shoulder and points to the speaker that is broadcasting Neal's sound feed, with the other. "He's still breathing." Jones feels silly talking to him like this, like a scared child, but the man has let the panic take over and this seems like the right way to handle it._

_Taking a deep breath, Peter looks at the speaker and then at Jones, nodding his head and snapping himself out of the trance he had fallen into._

"_Yes, yes. Right, but something is very wrong in there. We have to get him out," Peter insists._

_No one is going to argue with him on that one. Not when there are knives flying at Neal's head. _

"_Okay, want us to suit up?" Jones asks; he isn't trying to step on Peter's toes but the man still looks a little white, so a gentle suggestion for an order wasn't amiss, in his opinion. _

Peter nods his assent, "Let me warn him you're coming in first," he says. Reaching into his pocket he turns on the small power box, attached to the little microphone he is wearing on his shirt collar, the one he turns off every time he doesn't have to use it in order to preserve the very short battery life.

"That's it Caffrey, we are coming in to get you." Peter says into the microphone. It seems that Peter is just as good at acting as Neal because his voice comes out sounding strong and commanding, with no indication that his insides have turned to jelly with fear.

"No!" The earnest whisper comes from the speaker and Peter is relieved to hear Neal's voice, but he stares at the speaker it came out of, in disbelief. Neal sounds so adamant that Peter needs to believe that he shouldn't go in after him. However, he can't shake the feeling that something really bad is happening that he is powerless to stop.

"Neal," Peter can't help the relieved breath he exhales as he says that. "What is going on in there?" he asks because he has to know. He has to know why knives are flying at Neal's head, why he sounds so scared, why he is breathing so heavy and why they can't go in and save him!

"Honestly Peter, I don't really know." Well fuck, of all the answers Peter wants that is not one of them. He can't do anything if they don't know what is going on and there is nothing Peter hates more then not being able to do anything, especially when someone he cares about is in trouble… someone he cares about? What the hell? Peter doesn't have time to examine that right now, all he knows for sure is he does, indeed care about Neal and hell if he knows when that happened but it did, and that Neal is in trouble. He can save that introspective crap for later when he has Neal back safe and sound.

"Well, get out of there!" Peter orders with as much firmness as he can muster, as if demanding Neal get out safe would mandatorily make it so Neal could obey, but something in his gut was telling him it wasn't going to be that easy. Something in his gut was screaming at him that this was not going to end well and as he hears Neal's exasperated "I'm trying!" through the speakers, his gut is telling him that, that is very likely the last time he is going to hear Neal Caffrey's voice. Peter is praying that for once in his life his gut is wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

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Collectable

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Chapter four

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When his heart starts to beat again, Neal brings a hand up to feel where the knife had skimmed his face. A few trickles of blood meet his hand but nothing deep. He looks to where the knife is now wedged in the wall. He can see now how the trap was rigged, with monofilament line, the invisible kind that magicians use in their levitating acts. Neal is pretty sure this isn't a magic act. That knife is very real and had he not ducked in time he would have been really dead.

Neal took in a deep breath and carefully got to his feet. Looking around the room he, sucks in his bottom lip nervously. Now that he knew it was there the illusion was ruined, he could plainly see the 'invisible' monofilament line zigzagging around the room in different patterns in different places, mostly over any possible exit, but also attached to random things.

"That's it Caffrey, we are coming in to get you." Peter's voice sounds in his ear.

"No!" Neal whispers in an exclamation, as much as anyone can exclaim in a whisper. He isn't going to tell Peter what was going on, he doesn't want the man to rush into the house half cocked in a valiant rescue attempt and get himself killed by one of this psycho's booby traps…Elizabeth would never forgive him.

"Neal," Peter breaths "What is going on in there?" he asks.

"Honestly Peter, I don't really know." Neal whispers into the watch, holding it to his mouth. He doesn't really care how he looks any more.

"Well, get out of there!" Peter ordered.

"I'm trying!" Neal's whisper is definitely exasperated, but then he gets very quiet, listening to the footsteps he can hear approaching again.

He moves back quickly to hide in a dark corner made by a large book shelf that doesn't quit touch the wall. Tripping backwards over a thin line of monofilament, Neal falls and an ice pick flies at him, aimed right at his chest.

Falling sideways, as he tries to catch himself on his dominant hand, he upsets the trajectory of the sharp pointy object headed straight for his heart. The ice pick lodges itself in his left shoulder. Neal has to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from shouting.

His tool bag flies from his hand and skids across the floor and into another trap line sending a meat cleaver across the room, where it lodges itself in the wall at about the height Neal's neck would have been at if he had been standing. Neal's heart stops again for a brief moment and he isn't sure he has ever been so scared before in his life.

Tears prickle the corner of his eyes, but he still doesn't trust himself not to scream, so he doesn't move his hand from his mouth just yet.

Neal bites down on his own leather clad finger for a moment, trying to overload his brain with pain messages in order to knock all of them out. It only somewhat works, but it's enough to allow him to remove his hand from his mouth a moment later. Pulling his hand away, he can see that he has bitten himself hard enough to leave permanent teeth indentations on his expensive leather glove, but honestly, he doesn't much care. It's about to be stained with blood anyway. He grabs hold of the ice pick's handle, stealing himself a moment before he gives an all mighty tug, yanking the pick out of his shoulder.

There is a lot of blood but it seems the pick has just gone through the fleshy part, right under the shoulder joint. With a lot of effort and practically one-handed, Neal rips a strip from the bottom o f his expensive dress shirt- heck, it has a hole in it anyway- before he manages to wrap it around his wound and tie it tight. It HURTS, how he has to move is injured shoulder in order to use both hands to tie the make shift bandage, but he has to stop the bleeding.

Panting and with tears in his eyes, Neal canvases the room again. He had missed the last trap, but he won't miss the next.

Only when he is positive he has the room memorized, every line of filament imprinted in his mind, does Neal scramble to his feet. It's a daunting task, one arm not quite as useful as Neal would like.

Brining his right hand up, he wipes the tears from his eyes. The leather feels awkward, like it doesn't quite get rid of all the moisture so much as spread it around and Neal resorts to using his arm, not caring how uncouth it is to wipe his face with his sleeve like a sniveling toddler.

He makes his way slowly through the living room and into the dining area, eyes open, taking in any and all changes to her surroundings. He notes more monofilament line attached to the windows and various objects and he makes a mental inventory.

He steps over the line that booby traps the opening to the kitchen and peers at the kitchen's back door. It isn't locked up like the front, but there are trap lines criss crossed over it. He might be able to wedge out between them, he has made it through tighter spaces then that, but the kitchen floor is covered in a thick yellow goo, starting just a few inches from where he stands on the linoleum. He doesn't know what that is but he isn't sure he can or should walk through it. He stands just inside the opening right before the start of the goo, and gives a sniff… acid, well- just- fuck!

Carefully, Neal steps backwards over the trap line and out of the kitchen. He makes his way around the bend of the wall and to the bathroom. He scans the room, it seems un-tampered with, that alone set off alarm bells in Neal's head, but the window is clear and as far as he knows, the only accessible exit in the entire house. There is a chance that the maniac had not gotten to this room yet. The window is small, he may not have felt the need to guard it. After all, he had many other places to booby trap and limited time to do it in if he wanted to prevent escape.

Weighing his choices, not that there were many, Neal takes a tentative step into the bathroom, and when nothing happens he pulls himself in all the way and towards the small window. A blood curdling scream of pain comes from the vent above the large mirror and he trips over the vanity bench, stumbling forward. The door slams shut forcefully and Neal gets to his feet fast, noticing only to late the trap wire hidden under the vanity, attached to the bench. He dashes to the door which he finds locked, from the outside, and he doesn't even know how that could possibly happen.

"Neal! Neal what was that screaming? That's it; we're coming in for you." Peter's voice is frantic in his ear and Neal has to fight to think coherently, himself, through the fear.

"No, Peter, no, Look… I don't know what's going on here. Whatever it is, it isn't good. The place is booby trapped and locked down tighter than fort Knox. You can't see the trip wires from outside because they are all inside, placed differently over each window and door. If you send someone in they will be killed and I still won't be out. Look, I-Ill find a way out…" It sounded like a lie even to his-own ears but he keeps going with it "I always weasel my way out of sticky situations."

"Neal…" Peter's voice is plaintive, pleading.

"No, Peter, I won't let you kill of good agents on a hopeless suicide mission, besides, I'm the only one slick enough to get me out of this place." His attempt at levity falls flat but Peter still relents. Neal isn't quite sure why, but that hurts.

"Okay, Neal." Peter's voice is suspiciously tight, and Neal wonders if this is goodbye.

As Peter's voice fades away, a thick ploom of gas bursts out of the vent accompanied by another scream of agony, from where ever the vent leads.

Neal scampers to the window and tries to push it open, it won't budge. It may not have been booby trapped but it seems it had been glued shut. He pushes harder looking up and out. He nearly falls backwards in fear as he sees that the window; was not, in fact glued shut but instead, standing by the window, holding it closed, from the outside is a man in a black leather mask staring at him with hungry sadistic brown eyes.

The sight makes Neal scream and cower like a cornered animal before turning back to the door. He claws and wails blindly white, freshly painted door, the one he himself painted the previous day. In his blind panic he doesn't see the short trap wire leading from the door knob to the light switch… he should have canvassed the room better instead of being blinded by the hope the clear window gave… A large metal meat tenderizer comes, flying at his head. He hasn't time or space to move out of its way so he crosses his arms over his head to protect himself, the heavy kitchen tool hits his left wrist hard, shattering the watch as well as some bones.

He cries out in pain and pulls his wrist to his body protectively. Tears trickle down his cheeks and he coughs, the air getting harder to breath. He tosses himself to the floor as more gas filters into the room, burning his lungs and making it hard to breath.

He can feel the edges of his vision blur and he bangs on the bottom part of the door, the strength of the banging fleeting away with his consciousness.

The screaming follows him into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Blood is red bruises are blue, I don't own, you don't sue.

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Collectable

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Chapter five

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Peter hears screaming coming from the speakers, though it doesn't sound like Neal it still makes Peter's blood curdle.

"Neal! Neal what was that screaming? That's it; we're coming in for you." Peter's voice sounds frantic to his own ears, but then again, it is. He NEEDS to get Neal out of there!

"No, Peter, no, Look… I don't know what's going on here. Whatever it is, it isn't good. The place is booby trapped and locked down tighter than fort Knox. You can't see the trip wires from outside because they are all inside, placed differently over each window and door. If you send someone in they will be killed and I still won't be out. Look, I-Ill find a way out" Neal is lying. Peter can always tell when Neal is lying, but God, this time he wants so much not to know that. "I always weasel my way out of sticky situations." And Peter wants to believe, he wants to believe those words so bad it hurts.

"Neal…" Peter is pleading, he knows he is, but how can Neal deny him the right to try and save him? Making him sit here and do nothing seems far too cruel a punishment and Peter wonders what he has done to deserve it.

"No, Peter, I won't let you kill of good agents on a hopeless suicide mission, besides, I'm the only one slick enough to get me out of this place." Peter knows that Neal is trying to make light of the situation, in true Neal, deflection form. It isn't working but Peter can still see the truth in his words and he has to agree, even as it breaks his heart to do so. He cannot allow his emotions to rule his decisions, and he knows if it where any other agent in the same predicament Peter would have to let them get themselves out of there. He can't, in good conscience, send other agents to certain death to try and rescue another. Cost analyses just won't allow it. He can't act differently now because it is Neal in there. Especially because it is Neal in there, and oh he hates that!

It's the hardest thing he has ever had to say, and he doesn't want to say it, but the looks from Jones and Cruz, the ones who would most likely be risking their lives to save Neal's, both still looking more than ready to go in, helps him force the words out…

"Okay, Neal." Peter's throat is tight with tears that he will not allow himself to shed, and he wonders if this is goodbye.

He looks at his agents; neither of them looks relieved by his choice, instead they both look immeasurably sad. He realizes that he works with some very good people, not just good agents, no, he always knew they were good agents, but now he can see they are good people, very good people. And he wonders why he is just seeing, how good; now.

He listens intently to Neal's breathing, through the speakers. It will have to be enough, for now, to just know that he is still alive.

Still, Peter can't calm his jittery nerves. Sitting out in the surveillance van, knowing there is something going on yet there is nothing he can do is the worst kind of purgatory.

When he hears Neal scream, it is almost his undoing. He jumps up and heads to the door of the van, he is going to find a way into that house!

A hand on his shoulder stops him.

Jones…

"Peter, don't." Jones says looking at him with wide eyes which convey the fact that this is just as hard for him as it is for Peter. The look at least tells Peter he is not alone, that Neal has more people that care about him than just Peter. It's a kind of solidarity with his agent that he had never had before.

"I know you want to save him but think of El. You heard him, its suicide." Knowing that Jones is as upset about not being able to save Neal as he is makes listening to him a lot easier, and he is right. He has to think of El.

Peter nods and sits back down putting his head in his hands only to jump a moment later when a loud crashing, shattering sound plays along the speakers before fading into white noise, and Peter knows, whatever just happened to Neal has caused them to lose their audio.

Peter quickly realizes that not being able to hear Neal's screams doesn't make it any easier. He can't even hear him breath anymore to know that he is alive.

Peter is agenized to find himself now blind and deaf…


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Blood is red bruises are blue, I don't own, you don't sue.

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Collectable

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Chapter six

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Neal wakes up to find himself, suspended by his arms, to a rafter in the ceiling of what appears to be the basement.

He is not alone.

He groans in pain, the cuff around his shattered wrist hurts more than Neal can remember anything hurting, not to mention the ache of the wound the ice pick had produced, it sends searing jolts of agony as well, at the way it was being contorted.

Neal's eyes, cloudy with pain, take a few moments to take in the fact that Mr. Harrison is tied, bloody, to a table right in front of him.

The man's eyes are sewn shut; his left ear severed from his head and crudely pinned back on with carpet staples, giving him a grotesque, living scarecrow, look.

"Joe." Neal croaks to get the man's attention.

"Arkin? Arkin, is that you? What are you doing here?" Joseph's voice is a choked whisper, tired from his agenized screaming.

"That's a long story, where is Sharon, Matthew and Tim?" Neal asks, hoping the man won't press as to why he is there. Given the current circumstances it hardly seems important and he doesn't want to waist the energy to explain.

"Sharon… I don't know. In the house, someplace." He sounds as if he is about to pass out, but Neal can't let him do that just yet, he needs to know where the rest of the family is.

"Matthew and Tim?" he prompts again.

"Twins… twins… at my parents. They picked them up a few hours ago… still sick… weren't coming out with us." And it all sounds like too much effort for him to get out. It hurts Neal just listening to him.

But that's good. It means that at least the boys are safe. Sharon on the other hand, if she is some place in the house; isn't.

Neal takes a few deep breaths.

It's certainly harder with a broken wrist and injured shoulder, but there still hasn't been a pair of cuffs made that Neal Caffrey can't get out of. These are no exception, and soon, they slide off and Neal, slowly pulled his arms down, which hurts his injured shoulder just as much as hanging from it had.

He slowly makes his way over to the table Mr. Harrison is strapped down to and quickly sees that the man isn't actually tied but, is, instead, nailed down with large rusty nails through the middle of his hands. His feet are mangled, tied together with barbed wire…

Neal's stomach clenches in an uncomfortable manner as he doubles over, expelling the content of his stomach onto the concrete floor and his expensive shoes.

More costly, leather accoutrements positively ruined!

Taking a deep breath, Neal mops his face with the sleeve of his good arm.

There is nothing he can do, he can't free the man without doing more damage, and Harrison can't exactly run if he were to be freed. It would be better to leave him and send down help, if Neal was ever to escape himself, that is.

"I-I'm going to find Sharon. I'll come back for you." And he knows even as he makes the promise that he probably won't be able to keep it.

Neal's mouth tastes of vomit and it is all he can do to keep from throwing up again, as he makes his way up the stairs. He opens the door at the top of the basement steps, as little as he can, and slides, sideways, out the small opening, ignoring the pain thrumming through his body.

He tip toes his way around the bottom floor, mindful of all the trip wires. His movements are slow and deliberate, he keeps to the shadows and listens carefully for any sound that may lead him to Sharon, but is very aware that those same sounds could, in fact, lead him to the maniac behind all this.

Scouring the bottom floor, Neal hears nothing. A thumping comes from one of the bedroom upstairs draws his attention and he creeps over to the stairway. Before making his way back up the steps, his eyes are drawn to the frayed edge of the ugly red carpet which is NOT nailed down to the steps, his foot stops mid air above the bottom step before his pulls it back. The carpet had most definitely not been frayed and it had been very, nailed down before with… carpet staples… Neal shutters.

He nibbles his bottom lips and looks around for monofilament line, of which, he finds none of on, or near the steps. Remembering the bathroom, Neal checks every pole of the banister, every lose place a string could be tied, but comes up empty.

He slowly taps his foot on the bottom step and when nothing happens he very gently eases his weight onto his foot before, gaining a bit of confidence, starts climbing, slowly and steadily.

Neal wipes the sweat that had gathered on his brow, as he heads in the direction of the noise. He moves slowly, carefully. He isn't stupid enough to think, that just because the stairs weren't booby trapped, that the upstairs isn't.

It is darker in the upstairs hallway then it had been downstairs, without a single window to offer even the slightest glimmer from a street lamp. It made any trip wires positively invisible. A fact, Neal was very cognizant of.

He steps cautiously and lightly, feeling with his feet for any kind of resistance that there shouldn't be, in hopes he can pull back before triggering anything.

The thumping is coming from the master bedroom, so Neal heads in that direction, feeling his way very slowly as he goes.

His heart thumps in his chest, he is acutely aware of each 'flub-dub' it makes and it sets his skin crawling, you shouldn't be able to FEEL your heart beating, like that. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears and it is as if he can HEAR his heart as well.

His adrenalin is pumping like wild, it is the only thing that has prevented him from passing out from the pain, but still it's an uncomfortable feeling

He takes a deep breath and attempts to calm his body, he is usually much better at it than this, but then again, while he has been in some tight jams before, he has never faced a situation quite like this.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry about the long wait but this story has been giving me a lot of trouble in fact all of my stories have been giving me trouble so if anyone out there maybe thinks they can help me with one or more of my stories it would be very welcome. Please let me know through PM, thank you.

Sorry this is so short, I hope you all like it just the same.

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Chapter seven

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Peter stares at the speakers as if he could will them back into function, the white noise filling the van, bouncing off closed in walls, Peter can hardly breath.

Jones reaches over his bosses shoulder and does him the small mercy of turning off the audio feed, doing it as much for himself as he is doing it for his senior agent.

"He'll be alright boss, Neal is slick." He tries to assure the older man, he knows he is falling short because he doesn't even reassure himself.

Peter wants to believe, wants to believe Jones so bad, but there is a sick feeling in his gut that is telling him the opposite is true and one thing he has learned as a special agent was his gut was usually right something that had served him well thus far through his career. He hates it now though, hates it with a passion as blissful ignorance would be very welcome to Peter at the moment. Neal's screams echo in his ears.

He shakes his head sadly at Jones, "There are some situations even the great Neal Caffrey can't charm his way out of." He was being painfully realistic, but there was no use sugar coating the situation, they had all heard those screams. The terror of whatever was going on in that house had been so plain to read in those shrills it makes Peter sick to his stomach.

"You can't think like that, he seemed to be holding his own in there whatever is going on." Lauren tried, though she wasn't even buying it, Neal was in real trouble and they all knew it.

Peter shook his head, he knew what his agents were trying to do and he appreciated it. He knew they cared about Neal as well and that this was not easy on them either, but he couldn't bring himself to even pretend to believe the words they were saying. Something very sinister was going on in that house and Neal was in the thick of it. Peter had never felt so helpless.

Looking at the now quiet speakers, Peter made a decision, "We give him till midnight before heading in, if he isn't out by then we go in after him. We will take every precaution necessary, but we go in." Danger was part of their jobs and they would not leave Neal in there indefinitely.

Both of his agents nodded their heads, seeming more relieved by their bosses decision than anything else. In fact they both look almost eager, itching to get in and rescue one of their own, for that was what Neal was, he was one of them now no matter what he had been before.

Peter peers at his watch and closes his eyes tight, there was still an hour and a half till twelve and he doesn't think he can make it that long. Not without being able to hear Neal breath.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: This one's really short people, sorry. Again I have no beta so the mistakes are all that I own. I make no money from this at all.

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Collectable Chapter Eight

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Neal sucks in a deep breath as quietly as he can manage. It hitches with his mounting fear and stress and he tries again for a smooth relaxing breath. He manages it just barely and then starts to walk forward, slowly, deliberately, well aware there could be trip wires anywhere and he has no way of seeing them.

He makes his way towards the master bedroom and the sound. He slowly opens the door, relieved when nothing happens. Maybe the upstairs isn't booby trapped after all?

He looks at the window and cannot see anything attached to it, in fact it's open… wide open, but Neal is very aware there is nothing but a very long drop out with nothing between the ground and the window to help ease the way down. He is contemplating escaping through the window when he hears the banging coming from the large closet next to the bed and he can't help but make his way over to it.

Having heard Neal entered the room, whomever was in the closet let out a muffled "help me!"

It was not a women's voice which set Neal on high alert. Still he walked over to the closet and opened it, revealing a large black trunk. The trunk shook. Someone was inside of it.

Reaching in slowly he nervously opened the trunk, preparing himself for something to jump out and attack him. He wasn't prepared for a half, naked man to fall out, his foot attached to the box by a bear trap, his ankle all bloody an swollen around the sharp metal teeth.

"Get, get me out of here." He moaned.

"Who are you?" Neal demanded, taking a step back.

"Arkin." The man said making Neal's blood run cold.

Arkin… what were the odds? It wasn't exactly the most common name… Neal froze looking down at the man.

"Please help me." Arkin begged reaching out to Neal.

Based on the man's appearance he could not be the one that had done all this. The state of his clothing and the way his ankle looked, it had been trapped in that bear trap for some time.

Neal was aware time was short, he looked at the open window mere feet away and then at the desperate man. Making a snap decision he went over to the man and using all his strength, despite his injured wrist and shoulder, he manages to get the bear trap, with the man's help, off his ankle. It takes both of them to get the jaws to release.

The man jumps out of the box and looks as if he is about to say something, when his eyes go wide and he stares at something just over Neal's shoulder. He takes a moment to snap out of it before he runs towards the open window and jumps out.

Neal looks over his shoulder just in time to have a rag put over his mouth. He holds his breath and spins them around trying to shake his attacker off. The only thing he succeeds in doing is putting his opponent between himself and the egress.

He manages to get free by elbowing a soft stomach and he runs towards the bedroom door hoping to find another out.

He feels his attacker chasing him and he runs down the stair without looking where he is going. He steps on something slid under the loose carpeting and goes flying down the steps hitting his head hard on the wall and then all he sees is blackness.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Another short one, sorry people! I have a few chapters written mostly that just need to be fleshed out. Most of them are longer than the last two have been. Please bear with me on this I am just getting to the meat of the story and I finally have help on it so you should be seeing updates quite a bit more frequently. Please keep the reviews coming, they keep me going.

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Collectable Chapter Nine

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Peter didn't wait any longer. It was twelve on the nose when he gave the order to go in. Leading the way himself he is careful as they enter the house. The power is off and Jones makes his way to the circuit breaker to turn it back on.

The house floods with light and Peter takes a look around. The first thing he finds is Neal's broken glasses. He bends down to pick them up, pocketing them. For some reason he feels the need to have them.

Guns drawn they carefully make their way through the house taking one room at a time careful of the traps Neal had warned them of.

Neal is nowhere to be found, but they come across the dead bodies of the house owners, mangled and mutilated. It is all Peter can do not to be sick as the find first the wife in the bathtub and then the husband in the basement, both with removed and reattached body parts as if they were part of some grotesque science experiment.

"All clear." Jones calls as they finish scouting the house. There is no perp around, but no Neal either. Still the house is safe to search for evidence.

"There is no sign of Neal anywhere." Lauren says with a frown, "You don't think he ran do you?" She asks worried now. He didn't have the tracker on, in all the confusion of the night it would have been a perfect time for him to take off. Peter knows this as well as his agents, but he has to give Neal more credit than that.

"No, he wouldn't, he was in no shape to run and you saw those bodies. Whoever is responsible is pretty unhinged. Neal was facing that alone his mind was on survival not running." Peter was sure of it. He could feel it in his gut that Neal is in trouble.

They were interrupted by Jones, running in, "Peter you have to come see this, I found… well… someone, he's in bad shape but alive."

Peter follows Jones outside around the side of the house and over to the bushes. Peering in, he saw a man, mangled and bloody, hiding in the shrubbery.

He knelt down by him "I'm agent Peter Burke with the FBI. We are going to help you. Jones, call a bus." He said to his agent. "What's your name?"

"Arkin," He says than he blurts out "He's got him." looking wide eyed and terrified, "He's got him and he'll never escape."

"Who's got who?" Peter asks crouching down next to Arkin… That name… What are the odds? Peter feels ill, but he pushes it away to deal with the problem at hand. This man may know something and Peter needs to find out what that something may be.

"The Collector's got Blue Eyes." Arkin tells him.

"The Collector? Blue Eye? Blue Eyes... Neal!" Peter feels his stomach turn to ice. "Who is The Collector?"

"He, he collects people. Collects people to torture." Arkin whispers in terror. Evidence of that torture is all over Arkin's body. Half heeled knife wounds, burn marks and welts litter the exposed skin of his body not to mention what was under the tattered remnants of his cloths.

Peter hears the ambulance arrive and stands there frozen as the paramedics stabilize and carry off Arkin. He feels fear grip him as he has no idea where to start to look for his friend and he realizes, he has heard that name before.


End file.
